A Staple in Every Gentleman's Wardrobe
by Octovision
Summary: Fem!Ed/Roy. Getting in the pants of your major is harder than it seems, or needs, to be.


Dude, I am so in love with slutty fem!Ed. I want to write slash so bad, but it comes out as this. Ugh. Someday I'll write a proper Roy/Ed slash, just not today. Am loving how prevalent Roy/Ed is in this fandom though. Gragggggh. Excellent.

Mostly Roy/Ed, but also contains, in order of appearance: Havoc/Ed, Falman/Ed, Breda/Ed, Fuery/Ed, Armstrong/Ed. Armstrong/Ed was seriously fun to write, but the Breda/Ed scenario takes the cake for me for no real reason at all except I am positive I people do that in real life. Just ask the chess club at your high school.

* * *

Colonel Roy Mustang was a tricky bastard, but Ed was trickier.

One who took Ed by the arm and threw her into the pit of national alchemy, where inferiority complexes could be realized and lesser men felt compelled to pat Ed on the head and give words of wisdom that weren't the least bit wise. So Ed pitched her voice accordingly when she was on the operating table and Roy Mustang was eyeing her terribly closely. Winry tinkered like she didn't see a thing wrong. Al hunched on his stool moodily. Pinako honestly didn't have a thought for it.

"I'll think about it, okay?" she cried. The colonel was taken aback and his lieutenant rubbed her pocket like she was itching for her pistol.

Three weeks later, when Roy Mustang came out _again_, proposition for pulled leg, Pinako caught on and escorted him to the lunch table, where Al sat sightless and Ed mulled through a cheese sandwich. Roy scraped his chair back enough to see Ed's good leg beating to a mute tempo. Ed saw. She peeled her wrappings back enough to make the colonel reel. His soup splattered in his lap. Ed laughed. Al brightened.

Roy mopped his lunch off his lap while graduating to the line of thought: Ed is a girl. Ed is female. She has a —

He'd never met a twelve-year-old with such bold instinct. Definitely national alchemist material. Definitely someone interesting for company. Definitey someone he'd want under his authority. Who knew what lurked in that girl's subconscious. Roy wanted to know.

Three years later, Roy wasn't entirely sure yet. Or how he managed to keep Ed Elric's sex a secret. When Armstrong commented blindly on how strong and manly the Elric brothers were, Roy bit back a sardine-can statement on the nature of his subordinate's condition. But willed himself to laugh at Armstrong's blathering until Fullmetal showed up. Roy couldn't help but think of a blow under the desk, or necking in his car on the way to his apartment. A midnight visit to the dormitories. Sidesaddle in the shower. Bareback in the bathtub.

And that's when Roy's daydreams came to a screeching hault: in the men's toilets, halfway through the day, whorls of smoke came from the handicapped stall. A wet pop and a sigh. In the low voice of a man yearning privacy, "You're terrific. If alchemy doesn't work out for you, you can always have this as a backup. Great job, baby."

Roy watched in horror as the door unlatched. Jean Havoc flipped his cigarette into the toilet and braced against the door to crack his neck. Fullmetal, a whole two heads shorter, pulled Havoc down for a sloppy kiss. Mortifying. Fullmetal's eyes roved slightly to the left.

"Too much tongue, Fullmetal!" Roy bellowed as he blustered back to his office with wet hands.

The second wasn't nearly as horrible as the first, in that nothing visibly happened (unless Roy had averted his attention once, which was not feasible). Fullmetal flirted with Falman, intensely. Falman squinted back lustfully. Half an hour later, she was in Falman's lap. All Roy's anxiety pills were gone. Once Fullmetal leaned to whisper in Falman's ear, his other ear was subjected to the torture of: "Get me more coffee, you damn lech."

"I decided to let everyone know!" she warbled enthusiastically when questioned. "Everyone's being such a wonderful sport."

He saw.

Conquest numero tres: Breda, whose current intellectual stimulation included footsie under the desk during chess. And Roy could see it, _could_ _see_ _it_, Ed's flesh foot molded over Breda's groin as he gasped out, "Checkmate!" Breda gave a wily grin to Ed, who was similarly glowing. Roy saw nothing between them after that, much to his relief and Breda's probable disappointment.

Poor Fuery was fixing the transistor radio on the sill when Ed molested him.

Her hand slipped down the front of his pants, and she gave a good squeeze. Fuery yelped. Everyone besides the three of them were out to lunch, otherwise they wouldn't have missed the beautific spectacle of a tomato-faced Fuery slipping on his ass with Ed's hand twisted back, still in his pants. Roy watched gleefully as Ed muttered apologies and Fuery hyperventilated.

Just as soon as Roy thought it was finally _his_ turn to get serviced, as his hand was starting to bear wear from all the wanking sessions, as he didn't want to risk asking Riza for a blow—Fullmetal went and clung to the hammy arm of Major Armstrong, who seemed genuinely delighted that Ed was a girl.

Ed was spoiled rotten. Al, Roy saw, reaped the benefits. The brothers—siblings had belly-busting dinners almost every night (well, Al just had to buy a few new notebooks to fill with his lustful food fantasies). As expected, Armstrong was almost ambitiously chaste. Roy wondered if this frustrated Ed, the terrible little sexpot. No doubt Armstrong was hung like a walrus. Ed presumably wanted that, no matter if only the head would fit in.

Roy caught Ed crawling on her hands and knees, dressed in a camel fur coat and crocodile skin gloves. There were thistles in her hair, quarter-sized hickies on her neck. Also a terrible wince, but Roy smirked anyway.

"So, Fullmetal," he asked, "what's gone wrong with Mr. Right?"

"I—I... No more! I don't want that!" Ed gasped, and rested her head on Roy's thigh. She stared up at him weepily.

"Is he too rough or something?"

"It's an Armstrong tradition that's been passed down for generations, apparently—animalistic sex in the rose bush. It means we're engaged. I crawled out. I got out, then he grabbed by foot. Then I kicked him and transmuted the garden wall into stocks. He blasted out. Then I built something. I don't even know what it was. Got him in the groin pretty good. I hope I don't get fined for property damages."

"Of course not, Fullmetal," Roy pet Ed's hair (to which Ed reacted in distaste, but that was just about everything Roy did, so he didn't really care), "Armstrong's a gentleman. He won't hold you accountable for destroying a very, very, very expensive garden. He likes you."

Roy was not happy when his sarcasm rang true.

As much as he argued with Riza ("Go–go turn her into a lesbian! Get a crowbar and pry her away! Get Armstrong court-martialed!") about Ed's future happiness and uterus (both of which would be subjected to thirteen-pound babies and sparkles, if someone didn't intervene soon), Riza shrugged him off. "It doesn't concern you. Leave them alone," she said, as if she actually wanted to see Armstrong and Ed together. He demoted her to sergeant, in his head. Luckily he didn't slip in addressing her.

Roy was, simply put, going crazy.

Ed came in for a visit every now and then, waving her fat diamond, as many gold carats as carrots a rabbit would pass through its digestive system in a lifetime. She positively glowed.

"So... moose, whale or walrus?" Roy snickered.

Ed paused to consider. She was painting her five toenails on his desk. "A Xingian raccoon-dog."

"_What_?"

"I can frankly be that specific. I saw a documentary and made the parallel. Although it doesn't have that one feature—"

"Mine does!" Roy cried.

Ed expressed her doubt, but threw him a bone by admitting the major would _not _do oral. It was depressing. Roy's wholly desperate mind reeled in ecstasy.

On the eve of Armstrong and Ed's wedding, at rehearsal dinner, Roy felt smashing in his dashing uniform and the monocle he'd purchased from a fellow alchemist, who really overplayed the ritzy sugar daddy look. Roy knew he was the swarthy, mysterious kind of sugar daddy. Ed couldn't possibly resist—unless she expected her sugar daddy to actually pay (their salaries were nearly equal, Roy figured) her way for everything and live in something besides a junky apartment with even junkier furniture that threatened collapse from the stress of a coin under the cushion, nevermind if they should want to get frisky on it.

Armstrong's whole family was seated around Ed, Olivier and Katherine farthest away and the two gargantuan ones hiding their five o'clock shadows demurely behind their equally plate-sized hands. Roy squeezed in between some cousins (who were thankfully not all that unattractive, but Roy reminded himself he was here for _Ed_). He planned to give the toast:

"Armstrong, your bride is _mine_."

But, as anticipated, he didn't have enough balls to carry through. Instead he told a lame anecdote about Armstrong's tete-a-tete with a treehugger named Jed and left it at that. All the groom's side roared with laughter, Olivier excepted. Rather, she was pondering if cutlery doubled as castration tools—but that's something you shouldn't try with a plastic fork.

After generic pseudo-nuptials in the church, Ed appeared, looking lovely and swallowed up in her wedding gown. It had once belong to Mrs Armstrong, who was approximately three times Ed's height. They just pretended it had a very long train; the rest was done away with safety pins.

She slumped into the pew, next to Roy. "Are you excited?" he asked glumly.

"Are you kidding? I'm inheritor to their whole estate if Olivier and her parents die. What's there not to be excited about?"

Pushing potato sacks from your womb. A perpetual sparkle. Horrible family reunions. Roy thought of his last haggard trump card. "No oral."

Ed sighed, "I'll live, Colonel."

A horrible, strange, wonderful idea entered Roy's mind, through the Haha, Maybe in Another Dimension entrance. "Or will you? What if you end up dying for it, hm? What if I show you?"

"Colonel, I'm getting married tomorrow—"

Roy held Ed's hand, a look of complete sincerity ruining him. "I insist."

[x]

And thusly, the next day when the best man was found sampling the fruits of the bride (something they'd apparently been doing all night), the two filled their arms with all the champagne and refrigerated truffles they could lift from the icebox and headed north to Drachma, where wedding chapels and cheap motels were heavily regarded as cornerstones of their national tours.


End file.
